[the place: a small apartment dining room. the time: early in the morning. A young man, Hastuss, sits at a small table eating breakfast. Another young man, Aran, enters and walks groggily to the table with a bowl of cereal.
Hastuss: Good morning, Aran.
A: You ought to be after lying like that, but I suppose I forgive you.
H: I don't understand.
A: I don't imagine you would. You're a slave to a lie, Hastuss, and are therefore naturally hindered from understanding the truth.
H: But what did I lie about?
A: The morning! You called it good, and that's a lie, plain and simple.
H: [beat]. This isn't a good morning?
A: Of course not! It's a morning; how could it be good?
H: How could it not? Mornings are beautiful things.
A: [shaking his head]. No. You're consumed by your lie. You can't understand. Morning is evil, Hastuss. It's a demon and a thief. Every day it steals the sweet bliss of sleep from us which we earned the day before, and every night we gain our precious sleep pack only for Morning to steal it again! Morning is a monster, spawned of Sin and Satan, and I rue any experience with it.
H: You're mistaken, Aran.
A: Is that so? Am I mistaken? Let's examine a few facts of life, shall we? [standing, waving his spoon around in frustration]. Morning brings with it Waking. Together, these two imps bring with them strife and misery - which are playthings to them, mere toys! - and dole them out to undeserving people who only want to be left to their slumber. I for one seem to be a favorite victim of Morning and Waking. Do you know how I sleep, Hastuss? Badly! Pitifully! So little that it's a wonder I can stand!
H: Maybe a glass of warm milk before bed -
A: I woke up four times last night. Each and every time for no good reason - no noise, no alarm, no need for the bathroom or anything - except, of course, the amusement of Waking - Morning wasn't here yet to join the fun, of course. Once I woke at one, then again at three, then again at four-forty, then finally at six-thirty. It's what now, nine-thirty? I'm tired, Hastuss. I'm groggy and angry and miserable. There's no reason to it. Only the joy of vile waking and of your precious morning seeing as the sun has carried his ugly backside into the mess of it all now.
H: [a pause]. You are a sad creature, Aran, if you truly believe all that. A morning is a work of art, a thing of beauty. I know that you admire sunsets; why not then admire the sunrise, twins as they are, paintings in the sky by the hand of the Great Artist. I think you could find something to admire in the early hours if you looked a little closer. And really, you're being a bit over dramatic regardless.
A: [sitting]. Shut up and pass the coffee.